Disclaimer: This is Marvel, and I'm a DC. XD Really, I don't own anything and Sigyn is Norse mythology.
Author's Note: Like a few others, I saw the Thor movie recently. This is an unusual fic for me in that A. like the disclaimer says, I'm significantly more familiar with DC than Marvel (even there, more like Batman with bits and snatches of other heroes) and B. I'm more of a Greek mythology buff than Norse. That said, I know a few stories related to Loki, ran through the Thor and Loki: Blood Brothers visual novel, consulted Wikipedia, and...saw the movie. :P Anyway. This is a fusion fic: movie!Loki, Blood Brothers/mythology plot bunny, and various other interpretations of mythology scattered throughout. Hopefully it'll make sense.
For some time (how does one measure time, crushed beneath the world's darkness surrounded by damp and dead earth where no mortal being dares tread?) he is alone. The serpent watches him without passion, a creature endlessly encircling, all encompassing as the Ouroboros he once created. In the right mind Loki might have found humor in this—an irony, a poetry, a self-inflicted prison. He lies bound not by one son but two. Jormungand the Midgard serpent, Narfi reduced to his basest entrails. God binding god. Son tormenting father.
Loki knows these things.
In some cold, lucid corner of himself he wonders if it is possible to wake up.
He does not weep, though his screams reverberate until his voice is hoarse and his limbs weary and the venom crashes drop by drop onto his face mixing blood with poison or the other way around. He stares into nothing and sucks it into his lungs and cannot form a single word. Thor, he thinks, Odin, Balder, Heimdall. Thor. Loki does not know what he secretly begs for. His enemies. His family. His crime. His death. But as was the case when bound by wood instead of flesh, by form rather than thought, he can offer nothing in exchange. This time, he does not need tears. Through the hollow slickness, the sickness stretching silent over his bones he would accept anything from anyone.
When she comes, they do not speak. Another shadow within shadows, smooth lines and creases where flesh pits or cloth folds or her body shifts in ways he barely recognizes. Once upon a time Loki decided Sigyn's hair had more in common with straw than gold, that her lips were too thin, her features too long in some places and too soft in others. He'd grown disinterested. Father and brother consumed his time, consumed him.
One of them whispers a name. There is a soft, plinking sound as the first drop of poison hits her bowl instead of him. Loki breathes, and it hurts, and he closes his eyes. Maybe he imagines her fingers tracing his hairline before consciousness leaks away. Maybe he imagines it.